The Sordid Promise Read online

  By: Courtney Lane

  Table of Contents

  The Sordid Promise

  Copyright

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter-Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Author Note

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2014 by Courtney Lane

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  This book is a work of fiction. the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental

  First Printing: 2014

  For more works by this author, visit: www.redcherrypunch.com

  Edited by: Book Peddler's Editing

  Preface

  Dear Reader:

  This work of fiction contains themes that may offend the fragile reader. If you are not a fan of erotic, slightly dark and twisted, dimensional romances, this story may not appeal to you—as it deals with mental health issues, sadomasochism, disturbing violence and the like. It is not meant to be a manual, condone the activities portrayed, nor serve as inspirational literature for any of the topics listed here, or contained within.

  Thank you for reading.

  Courtney Lane, Author

  Contact me at: [email protected]

  My website: www.redcherrypunch.com

  Like me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorcourtneylane

  Check out my other works:

  The Vamp Experience

  AfterPlay: The Vamp Experience Series (Sequel)

  Atypical, Slightly Political, Dark Layered Romance Series:

  StrangeHer Love

  StrangeHer Love: Undulation

  My obnoxious alarm sounded, alerting me to take my medication. I sat up, glancing around my childhood bedroom—a place I never thought I’d come back to. It’s a bad kind of nostalgia, remembering all the times I came back here after having to endure the brutality of high school. My harsh experiences with people eventually sculpted me into becoming antisocial. People disappoint you and cause unnecessary drama. There was enough drama within the confines of my mind, and didn’t need anyone else to further expand on it.

  I didn’t understand most of the people I encountered anyway. I always felt like there’s some ritual I wasn’t privy to, and never had been privy to. Too many people posture or fake who they really are in order to be accepted. I’d like to think I had a freedom most don’t; I lacked the ability to care about mass acceptance. I actually preferred it when people deemed me as socially inept and stayed clear of me. While I didn’t think of myself as socially inept, I didn’t react to situations the way most people did. To most, strange differences equated to a communicable disease that needed to be purged.

  Despite having had two past relationships, I mostly kept to myself. I didn’t have any friends—well except for one person, and he’s much too tragic to be considered a real friend.

  I partly followed in my mother’s footsteps with my foray into investing. I became a moderately successful day trader after I graduated college. While my mother’s interests expanded into Harvest Investments, her financial investment firm, my admiration never manifested into working for her.

  I put my major to good use and set up an online business for graphic art design. It served as supplemental income when the markets weren’t on my side. I only dealt with clients through e-mail and instant message. It was perfect, for a time.

  I took a shower and threw on something without a care about what it was—skinny stonewashed jeans and a cheap, oversized men’s T-shirt. I wasn’t in the mood to do my makeup, but I had to do something with my hair; thick, midnight black, it hung midway down my back and required daily maintenance. I never fussed too much with it, and usually pinned it up in a messy, voluminous bun.

  As I opened the medicine cabinet to take my medication, there it was, an affront to my mental order. A blue and white packet of straight edge razor blades sat on the top shelf of the cabinet. I fell into a daze as I fingered the brand new box until yet another text from my mother snatched me out of my brief reverie.

  I continued my morning ritual and fixed a cup of coffee. Stepping out on the back deck of the house, I fell into deep contemplations as I looked out at the large body of water. Two and three-story European style brick homes surrounded the bay on the west side, while a dense forest outlined the east.

  The house was my mother’s dream home. The front detail included arched windows and a metal roof. Quite a few large bay windows with black shudders complemented the dark brick exterior of the home. Stained concrete flooring with radiant heat, crown molding, and marble tile accents were throughout the inside. The decor had a heavy Tuscan theme.

  Many of the houses in the neighborhood were so similar it was hard to tell one from the other in the master planned community.

  The Homeowner Association was headed by a slew of retirees and alimony collectors whose children had flown the coop, leaving their parents with nothing to do but gossip a little too much. Throughout my childhood years here, and the time I came back six months ago, a few of them have tried to befriend me.

  I took note of the house next door. It had lain empty for nearly a month due to a recent foreclosure. There was a large moving van parked out front. Men in uniforms lugged an array of dark modern furniture inside.

  I hoped my new neighbors were the quiet type, like most of my other neighbors—the woman across the street excluded. She was a middle-aged divorcée, who used to be a trophy wife to a politician. In one of our many one-sided conversations, which I tried to avoid, she told me she received a hefty alimony payment that allowed her to live in the gated community.

  I looked down in the water’s reflection, taking in the view of the woman with large, sad brown eyes and very full lips. She used to care about the way she looked—lately, she can barely get out of bed.

  Another text alert chirped, waking me out my daze, again.

  I decided to take my walk before my mother threw a fit and questioned why I was taking so long. I walked the trail daily; it was the only good thing about the neighborhood. The trail led a good mile through a secluded forest near a quiet street and onward through a community park three miles up.

  Popping in my earbuds and connecting the 3.5 mm cable to my phone, I walked along the sidewalk. I discreetly looked over to see if my new neighbors were around, but they didn’t seem to be. My walk continued down the pristinely paved street until I reached the walking trail at the edge of the master-planned community.

  As I plodded along the paved trail, I tried to get lost in my thoughts, but my
mother’s texts were more insistent than usual. If I wasn’t at her hospital bedside at nine a.m. sharp every morning, she pestered me until I arrived.

  She’s driving me crazy more than she ever had previously. After my ‘incident’, which had nothing to do—directly—with the scars on my wrists, she nearly smothered me with attention. It was hard to get used to; being that it was about seventeen years overdue.

  I transferred to a college across the country, Washington State, to get away from her. She called me daily, sometimes several times a day to check up on me—to babysit me from across the coast. I remained in Pullman, isolated in my small duplex from most normal social behaviors. About six months ago, my mother requested my return. I wasn’t convinced until she told me the reason why, and then…my world completely fell apart.

  I came back to western New York for her. Because in the end, I had no one else and neither did she.

  My phone chimed again, interrupting my playlist for the ninth time during my walk. I picked up my phone to send her a text, but in trying to juggle my coffee and my iPhone, both slipped from my hands. I tried to catch the items in midair, but fumbled when I saw a blur rush past me.

  It took a minute to realize what happened. My earbuds, still in my ear, disconnected from my phone in the shuffle. While blasting “Control”, my phone rested in the hands of a man in fleece jogging pants and a sweat soaked T-shirt. My travel mug laid on the ground with the lid cracked, expelling my coffee onto the pavement.

  “Joy Division?” His gravelly baritone voice rang out. “Wouldn’t be my choice, but I prefer less depressing music.” With a small grin aimed towards me, he pressed pause on my phone’s menu.

  Gradually, I took in the man standing before me. His height ranged at least six-three to my five-eight, because he had me by quite a few inches. His muscular lean build showed through the sweat-soaked transparencies of his slim-fit burned out T-shirt. His face was angular and almost seemed carved. Much like the men who frequented magazine spreads in nothing but their underwear. He had the prerequisite wide jaw with prominent and sharp cheekbones, as well. His complexion, a smooth honey-beige tone that had not a flaw to be seen—it glowed with a golden luminescence. His generous pout was a succulent dark rose shade.

  A black tattoo sleeve of illustrative shaded angel wings extended from his forearm all the way up, partially hidden by the short sleeve of his T-shirt. I made out the name in the center of the tattoo: Howard Lemon, Jr. Thick black chains surrounded the wings. The wings were bare, as if they had been torn, at various points where the chain hooks dug into the illustrated flesh.

  As he smiled earnestly at me, it reached his deep set light brown eyes. His face and eyes served to confuse me, because I couldn’t gauge how old he was. He could’ve been in his early twenties for all I knew.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t save your coffee. New to the neighborhood. Think I saw a coffee shop about a block up. I’ll buy you another cup while we get acquainted.”

  I moved forward to retrieve my phone from his hands, but he quickly withdrew, holding it just above my reach with a steady smile.

  “A thank you would be nice.”

  “You know what would be nice? If you gave me back my fucking phone and stopped talking to me.”

  He didn’t stop smiling, but his moderately thick brow raised underneath the brim of his blue baseball cap. “Bad morning?”

  “Seriously. Give me back my phone.” I tried to keep my voice level, but I was near to throwing a tantrum. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I hated it when strange men bothered me. He didn’t fall under the one-percent category.

  He folded his arms and tossed out a foot. “First a thank you, then your name.”

  I walked off and shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans as I not so quietly fumed.

  “Shit,” he muttered at his failed attempt to get me to do—whatever he wanted me to do. “You’re just going to walk away and leave your four-hundred dollar phone with a stranger?” He walked by my side, easily keeping up with my brisk pace.

  “Three hundred. I didn’t get the sixty-four.” Not sure why he was bothering me. I looked like hell. I felt like hell. I had the permanent, unfriendly scowl of someone you wouldn't want to chat up.

  “Can you slow down, so I can give you back your phone? You don’t want to be bothered? Fine. I get it. But if you leave your phone with me, I’m going to have more than one excuse to see you again.”

  “Why? You don’t know me. A guy like you can walk into a bar and get a girl on his arm within seconds. I get that maybe you like conquests or something. I hear humans do that—“

  “Humans? Are you trying to infer that you’re an alien?”

  “God!” I shrilled. “You’re not funny.”

  He stepped in front of me and stopped my stride. When I tried to walk around him, he moved again.

  “Would you move?”

  “Hold out your hand.”

  “Why?”

  He stepped forward, squinting his eyes with a temperate, twitching sneer. “Hold out your fucking hand.” His tone transformed into one that bothered me enough to do what he told me to do. He almost slid my phone into my hand, but abruptly changed his mind. With my phone firmly in his hand, he put both arms behind his head. Staring me down, he pressed at my stone wall with an overt dominance. “Your name. Then, I want you to thank me.”

  I glared back, unrelenting.

  “I may just…happen to lose my grip, and let your screen shatter like I should’ve the first time. Never know. Do you want to test how nimble my fingers are? Are you really comfortable enough with me to trust me?”

  I said nothing.

  He dangled my phone in the air.

  The thought of having to go to the Apple store, because I would need a new phone right away, was enough to make me bristle. “Nikki,” I forced through my teeth.

  He stepped forward, making me step backward. “And?”

  “Thank you,” I said insincerely.

  He slid my phone in my hand and jogged down the path without another word.

  Well…that was odd. I halfway expected him to call me a bitch, or some other derogatory term. I’d been there so many times before. I expected retaliation in the form of pejoratives when I rejected someone who couldn't take a hint.

  I made it back home, hoping I had enough time to make another cup of coffee before I headed to the hospital. By the time I unclogged the pod from the brewer, my mother had sent a total of four dozen texts. I poured my coffee into a new travel mug and headed to the door. I picked up the prospectus from the round table in the foyer, delivered by messenger from my mother’s investment firm yesterday, and took the keys for my mother’s Land Rover off the wall mounted hook.

  I glanced over at the moving van as I moved down the driveway. When I saw Mrs. Hobbins cross the street in her pink kerchief with her mean little Chihuahua under her arm, I cursed under my breath.

  “Did you meet the new neighbor?” she shouted at me as she waltzed up the driveway.

  “No, Mrs. Hobbins. Nice seeing you—“

  “He’s a looker that one. Single, too, I think. Nice and quiet. You two should meet. He’s been here for a couple of weeks, but he said there was some mix up with the storage place in Ohio. He’s from Texas, you know. I’ve been there a time or two, but—”

  “I have to go, Mrs. Hobbins.” I slipped inside the SUV.

  I made the mistake of indulging her once. My politeness cost me two hours in which she went on about her ungrateful kids, and how much she hated the way things were progressing with the government.

  From what she said about her kids, I completely understood why they avoided her. She was a busybody who loved to create disastrous situations with her ability to make her lies seem like facts. She claimed she did it for her children’s own good. In the end, it cost her a relationship with them.

  I put the SUV in reverse, leaving Mrs. Hobbins with a dumbfounded look on her face as she stood in the driveway.

  “I don’t u
nderstand why so many social media entrepreneurs are filing for IPO’s. The disadvantages are too great. I’ll tell you this much; what they’re hoping to recoup, they won’t receive. Did you bring me anything else?” My mother removed her reading glasses, placing them on top of the open prospectus in her lap. Her colorful scarf adorned her head, fashioned in a way that hid her baldness. She looked as though she’d lost a few more pounds since we last saw each other—that was yesterday. “Commodities. So volatile, but really where the ROI is. The price of organic milk is skyrocketing with the production costs. If I could get my hands on that…” She tapped her lips as she slipped into her thoughts.

  “Is organic milk publicly traded?”

  She peered at me with scrutiny, having full knowledge that I was joking, because she knew that I knew; it was one of the top trading commodities. She glanced up at the television, focusing on the market watch report. “Did you get my dress?” Disrupted by the alert chime on her phone, she retrieved her phone from the bed table. I peered over her lap, noting that she received a new text. She seemed dismayed. The text was sent from a Dr. C. It read:

  Didn’t work. Don’t worry. Never giving up.

  When she saw that I read her text, she weakly swatted me away. “Don’t you worry about that, just a former client seeking advice. My dress?”